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Updated: May 4, 2025
"Don't tell me he has developed into a crank," said Mrs. Derringham. "There's something so underbred about crankiness; and the Harwich family have always been essentially aristocrats." "I shouldn't think Armine was a crank, but I do think he is an idealist. He considers Watts's allegorical pictures the greatest things in Art that have been done since Botticelli enshrined Purity in paint.
He seemed struck with the fact that a man not too well clad, who had nowhere particular to sleep on the eve of Christmas Day, could scarcely be expected to be "merry." All the time he was talking about Watts's he was fumbling in his waistcoat pocket, and I know he was feeling if he had there a threepenny-bit.
Looking at the struggling boys, she thought vaguely of that hymn of Isaac Watts's which treats of barking and biting dogs and the desirability of amity and concord between children, as if it could in some way be applied to heal the breach. She called again fruitlessly in her thin treble, which had been raised in public only in neighborhood prayer-meetings: "Jerome! Jerome Edwards!"
He suffered severely for about three months, but it was not till the last week that his departure was thought to be near. He liked to have the English children brought in to read to him chapters of the Bible and sing Dr. Watts's hymns to him; and the beautiful old German hymns sung by Mr. Gericke and Mr. Kohloff were his great delight.
"When Bob was a little urchin, he once, in anticipation of his future tastes, committed the enormity of riding on a stick on Sunday; so she locked him up till he had learnt six verses of one of Watts's hymns about going to church being like a little heaven below, isn't it?" "Increasing his longing that way," said Lady Tyrrell.
'Well, it's i' this way, Mr. Penrose, said the old woman. 'I want a dry grave, wi' a posy growin' on th' top. I somehaa like posies on graves; they mak' me think of th' owd hymn, "There everlastin' spring abides, And never-witherin' flaars." Now, Mr. Penrose was one of the so-called theological young bloods, and held little sympathy with Dr. Watts's sensuous views of a future state.
Watts's paraphrase of the one hundred and forty-eighth Psalm exceeds them, both in melody and majesty. For instance, take these lines: "Wide as his vast dominion lies, Let the Creator's name be known; Loud as his thunder shout his praise, And sound it lofty as his throne.
Pierce liked him." "He evidently was very much hurt at Watts's not writing him." "Yes. I was really sorry I spoke, when I saw how he took it." "Watts is a nice boy, but he always was thoughtless." In passing out of the dining-room, Dorothy had spoken to a man for a moment, and he at once joined Peter. "You know my sister, Miss Ogden, who's the best representative of us," he said.
By this time the young authors who, to use Mary's own phrase, hungered and thirsted after acquaintances who were highly gifted in mind or profound in knowledge, had acquired one or two literary friends and correspondents, among them Mrs. Hemans, Bernard Barton, the Quaker poet, and the Alaric Watts's of Keepsake fame.
"Well, lads, I'm off, goodnight," said the painter, yawning and stretching himself out of the room. One by one the remaining four quickly followed, and before what I had on entering regarded as the absurdly early hour of eight o'clock had struck, five of Watts's guests had gone to bed, and the sixth was sitting looking drowsily in the fire, and thinking what a jolly Christmas he was having.
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